Hot days, night rides and beautiful people – Morocco 2009

[Geoff Crowther]

With sunlight beginning to fade I geared down the bike and pulled up at the side of the road.

My backside ached from the 180 or so miles I’d already ridden that day and I needed a rest and some food and drink. I forced down the pain chocolat from the breakfast buffet the day before and, taking a few long slugs from my water bladder, I sat in the dirt, leaning against the bike’s front wheel. A man, herding his goats across the road, greeted me with a, “Bonjour monsieur. Ca va?”
“Oui, ca va bien,” and a wave.

I was alone, facing a two hour, 80 mile ride in darkness to the hotel in Ifrane. But this was day 12 of the 17 day tour and I’d become accustomed to riding on my own, since it had become apparent early on in the tour that my riding style, being somewhat leisurely, didn’t fit with all of the other members in the group. So I saddled up, in the face of a beautiful Moroccan sunset, and settled in to the impending darkness.


I’d signed up for the World of BMW, Moroccan Desert Adventure in late June, wracked with fears of bending myself or, worse still, my precious bike, during the promised (threatened?) off road elements of the trip. I fulfilled the required skills level for the trip, having completed the BMW level 1 off road skills course run by Simon Pavey at their centre in South Wales, in July 2008.At the age of 55 I’d felt quite proud of the way I’d handled the school’s 1200 GS. I fell off just twice (less than most of the other candidates) and came away with grand, over-inflated thoughts of adventure motorcycling around the globe. Earlier that year my riding partner and I got as far as Gdansk in Poland on our tour round Central Europe before I had to return home alone to help with a family emergency. During our sojourn in Poland we had a couple of detours along unsurfaced back roads which only served to increase my thirst for motorcycling adventures. I needed more, but wasn’t quite ready for lone travel in Morocco, so the tour seemed as if it might fit the bill. However, in many years travelling the world, I’d never once sample the delights of any kind of package holiday, preferring always to be independent. But, there’s a first time for everything.

So, a late September Sunday saw me gathering at a superstore café in Plymouth with my four fellow tour members and our tour leader, the inimitable Dave Hall. Fueled up, it was then off to catch the late afternoon ferry to Santander in northern Spain.

The motorway ride down from my home in Hayfield, north Derbyshire had revealed a peculiar problem with the Adventure’s clutch. Whenever I needed to drop a gear, for one of several 50mph-through-roadworks sections for example, I found less than normal resistance at the clutch lever. In fact, I had to pull the lever right back for it to have any effect at all. By the time I got to Plymouth I’d stalled the bike on several occasions. Curiously, if I left the bike for just a few minutes, resistance returned to the lever and the problem disappeared. A worry though, when setting of on a 3-4000 mile journey, to say the least. But, given the deadline of the ferry departure, I resigned myself to resolving the issue in Spain.

Once on board, with the bikes securely strapped onto the vehicle deck, we had time to shower in the minimalistic, but comfortable, cabins before meeting up in the bar (where else?). Over the next 20 hours or so, we had time to begin to get to know each other. The group consisted of Paul, an IT specialist and previous Moroccan tour veteran, Ken, a civil engineer, Sandra, a dairy farm manager and Richard, a mechanic of considerable experience, plus me; retired teacher. When he’s not tour leading, Dave is a farrier by trade. With the exception of Paul, who was riding his “other bike”, a KTM 950 SE, all were riding various incarnations of BMW’s GS range. Richard had a classic 1150 GS Adventure, Sandra a 1200 GS and Ken, myself and tour leader Dave, were all on 1200 GS Adventures. It’s worth noting here that Paul and Dave were both highly experienced off-roaders, whereas the rest of us were relative novices.

Docking in Santander in warm sunshine at about mid-day saw us embarking on a 220 mile leg to our first night’s stop in Salamanca. Miles of sunlit roads flashed by as the small cavalcade of bikes wound their way through northern Spain. On longer, straight stretches, bereft of gear changes, my clutch problem persisted; but, with regular shifts it seemed ok.

First view of Santander, bathed in sunshine:

The hotel in Salamanca was clean and comfy and, after beers and showers we wandered into the beautiful old centre for a fine Spanish dinner before an early night.

The next morning, phone calls to BMW Assistance led me and Ken, (whose final drive was weeping oil) to Ifni Motos on the outskirts of Salamanca. The amazing Patrice and his lone mechanic had my clutch bled and Ken’s seal replaced within the hour and we then set out to catch up with others. Riding south through more wonderful scenery and a short spell of rain we eventually arrived at the magnificent Parador de Carmona. Set high on a hill the hotel had been built around the remains of an ancient castle, and offered beautiful rooms and fine food.

Ken & I with our new friend, Patrice, at Ifni Motos in Salamanca:

The courtyard of the Parador de Carmona:

Paul, Dave & Richard preparing to leave the Parador:

And the team outside the gate to the Parador. From the left that's Richard, me, Dave, Paul, Sandra and Ken:

 

[Geoff Crowther]

Another day dawned and it’s off to Morocco, or, at least, North Africa. We were scheduled to spend the next night in Ceuta, the Spanish enclave on the Moroccan border. This meant catching an afternoon ferry from Algeciras, close to Gibraltar.

Richard and I travelled together, at a slightly more leisured pace than the rest, (curiously though, we never seemed more than a few minutes behind the others at pre-ordained stops), stopping for photos and to gaze over scenic views. The bad news?: my clutch problem had returned. Oh dear! Tomorrow we leave Spain and BMW Assistance behind us. I shared my thoughts with tour leader Dave. He managed to convince me that the bike would get me through Morocco and home; such confidence!

Coffee break in the mountains leading to Ronda; shame it was shut ... no coffee!:

Leaving the coffee (not) stop:

The bridge at Ronda:

And, at around 5 in the afternoon, we left Algeciras for the short sea crossing to North Africa. We had ridden our bikes to Africa; a milestone in the journey.

An unkind view of thinning pates on the Algeciras to Ceuta ferry, passing the Rock of Gibraltar:

Ceuta greeted us, hot and dry in the Mediterranean sunshine and after another sumptuous dining experience we all went to our beds, each with their own thoughts of the next day, and the real beginning of our Moroccan adventure.

 

[Rushy]

Nice one

Where is the rest ?

 

[Geoff Crowther]

The border crossing into Morocco is not for the fain-hearted first-timer, but, with Dave and Paul’s experience, within an hour, and lighter by the equivalent of around £20 between us, six bikes and riders drifted through to Morocco and my first taste of culture shock. As we awaited the arrival of our support truck I watched, amazed, as hundreds of Moroccans made their daily pilgrimage into Ceuta for work and who-knows-what. They looked a bedraggled, sorry crowd and their number seemed endless as they continued to swarm over the dusty horizon behind us, down into the heated chaos of border control. It wouldn’t be the first time my senses would be assaulted and I wondered what kind of lives these ordinary Moroccans led.

A stolen pic of the Moroccan which doesn't illustrate the tension and heat:

Teamed up with Halid and his Land Cruiser and trailer we lightened the bikes by stashing panniers and bags in the truck and left the steamy environs of the border crossing. The area around the north eastern coast of Morocco is a glitzy, Mediterranean resort environment, which immediately seemed at odds with the scenes back at the border. BMW riding police seemed evident at every junction and Morocco looked just like any other resort on the Med. But it only took another 30 minutes or so of riding for us to begin to find our way into Morocco proper. The resort area is nothing more than a touristy façade, more Blackpool than Morocco. We were now into sweeping rural roads, with villages of flat-topped houses and little sign of tourist glamour, and, by the time we turned of the main road, to head over into the Rif Mountains, the atmosphere, topography and roads were quite different. Winding our way around tight bends and past steep overlooks I soon found myself trailing well behind the others. At a lunchtime stop I chatted with Dave and, with some reassurances from me about my map-reading skills and confidence with my satellite navigator, we agreed that I’d make my own way to our hotel in Ifrane. I assured Dave that my phone was on, and I could answer it while riding, thanks to modern technology, and Dave promised to check with me from time to time. I’d become tense, trying to keep up with my fellow travellers and, well-used to independent travel, I relaxed as I watched them disappear, and set off on my own adventure for the day.

As a dog lover, the sight of this hound under a truck tore at my heart:

This fellow biker from Germany, riding a heavily Tourateched 1100GS, updated Dave on some road closures:

As I set off along the road towards Zoumi I had my first encounters with the decayed and damaged surfaces so typical on Moroccan roads. First potholes, then wide bands of gravel right across the carriageway and then … the road disappeared, washed away, presumably by heavy rain, and the diversion took me over a twenty foot high pile of earth and stones to the left of the road. For the first, but not last, time, I stood confidently on the pegs and, gingerly at first, navigated the bike up and over the mound. Ok, Geoff, that’s your first taste of Morocco off-road then.

View over the Rif mountains near Zoumi:

Entering Zoumi, I found the tarmac road surface finished and the way through town was over a surface of sandy earth and stones. I stopped to check the map against my satnav and was immediately surrounded by a group of small boys and youths, all smiling, all eager to get a look at the foreigner on the big “moto”. The exchanges with the boys exercised my grammar-school French and brought many welcomes to Morocco and various ideas on the best route towards Fes.

During the rest of my journey that day I learnt the local trick of sitting in the shade when I stopped for rest, had a mobile conversation with a moped rider who was convinced I needed a hotel in Fes, successfully negotiated the outskirts of said bustling city and, eventually, arrived, tired but content, at the Grand Hotel in the alpine town of Ifrane in the hills of the Middle Atlas.

A rest stop in the shade:

The least said about the Grand Hotel, the better. Suffice to say that, in my humble opinion, the running of a night club to cater for the musical needs of the students in this university town until around 4.30 every morning is somewhat at odds with the provision of a good nights sleep for weary travellers.

 

[Geoff Crowther]

The next day proved to be a real highlight of the trip for me as, led by Dave, we explored the pistes (unsurfaced roads) which criss-cross the cedar forests and plains around Ifrane and Azrou. The temperature was in the low 20s and the surfaces mostly dry stones which allowed me to quickly gain confidence, piloting the big bike through the twists and turns of the tracks. This kind of terrain really shows the 1200GS at its best, eating up miles, gliding over loose stones with power to spare, balanced and poised … even in my clumsy hands!

The group in the beautiful Middle Atlas:

Only a brief encounter with a muddy rut thwarted me. Nervous at the new surface I throttled off … big mistake. The heavy bike’s front wheel dug in, and man and machine tumbled into the deep, red mud. I don’t know who laughed more; me, or Dave, following closely behind. Between us, we lifted the bike and Dave, skilfully, rode the bike to solid ground where I remounted and carried on. It was only when we stopped for a break a few minutes later that I realised how much of the red, Moroccan mud the left side of the Adventure, and the left side of my riding suit, were together carrying. I could only smile. There’d been no damage to me or machine and I felt like I’d completed a rite of passage. You may think this episode dented my pride but far from it. By the end of the day, having ridden some 80 or so miles, off-road, I felt quite elated at what I’d achieved. I was only too happy to acknowledge the limitations of my skills and accept, with gratitude, the willing assistance of Dave. What a day! Also, the day bought further insight into the living standards of the Moroccans who populated the beautiful surroundings which, for a day, had been our playground. Many lived in shanty-style homes, roofed with plastic sheeting. They seemed to earn a meagre living from a handful of sheep or goats which they tended diligently as we passed by. What did they think of me, I wondered; a decadent traveller on a big, expensive motorcycle, on vacation in the landscape they called home? It was a dilemma occupying my thoughts for much of the rest of our journey through their land.

Not really sure what was going on here, but Paul, Sandra and Richard look les than enthralled at Dave's wise words:

A young lad was tending this herd of goats, aided and abetted by a couple of dogs and a cluster of puppies:

Water splash:

Me, after the muddy fall:

What a view!:

 

[Geoff Crowther]

After a second night at the inglorious Grand I was again joined by Richard for, what was to prove, a spectacular journey south towards the desert and our next stop near Erfoud. Enjoying the open road and vistas we stopped often for photos and arranged a signalling system whereby the lead rider asked the following to stop, whereupon the lead rider would continue a way down the road to stop and take pictures of the following rider approaching and, sometimes, passing. This way, the two of us collected a number of action photos of each other passing through the landscape.

So here's Richard rounding a bend on a desert pass:

And a typical rural dwelling:

A classic view of a small Moroccan town, with the usual flat-roofed homes:

And another vital rest in the shade:

A simple shot of 1150 & 1200 GS Adventures:

Climbing a pass I overtook, what looked like an old British bike. An encounter at a roadside stop further on and we met with the Swiss couple riding the Indian-built Enfield, just four years old, which had been fitted by a German company with a beautiful looking diesel engine. Still further on, we met with them again as we stopped to look at a ford, traversing the River Ziz. Here we were given fresh figs by a roadside seller, who, despite our reluctance to make a purchase, insisted on sharing his mint tea with us. It was our first taste of this deliciously sweet infusion, comprising tea, mint leaves and cubes of sugar to help stop the leaves floating to the surface. More than once, this proved a refreshing drink in the heat of the desert.

The amazing diesel Enfield:

Richard with the fruit sellers near the ford:

They insisted, not only on sharing their mint tea, but on being photographed. Such great guys:

A donkey, near the ford:

Here's the ford. Richard set off across it, but the Enfield rider stopped him, saying there were potholes hidden by the water. A moped rider crossed without fuss:

And, earlier than our stop, here's a shot of Ken, dealing with the ford:

We made a detour to the small town of Rich, for Richard’s amusement! I was determined to seek out a coffee stop, frequented by locals, rather than tourist-trinkety. The choice was a good one. We enjoyed coffee, and conversation with the owner who, almost unbelievably given the remoteness of the location, had run in two London Marathons! He was so pleased to meet us. I also got a photo of one the Docker trucks; the ubiquitous three wheeled workhorses with a motorcycle engine and front frame, handlebars and all, mated to a rudimentary, two wheeled open, pick-up style rear end. These could only have had a 125cc engine since it transpired that this is the largest capacity engine available for motorcycles in Morocco (except for the police). No wonder foreigners on large-capacity machines are such a novelty.

So here's Rich having coffee in ... Rich:

A Docker truck:

And Rich, leaving Rich:

Richard, in the Ziz Gorge:

And me too:

Desert shot of Richard's fine 1150GS:

A local lad on my bike:

And another on Richard's:

Our encounters with locals that day piled one upon the other as we wound our way from one new view to another until, after around 200 miles we finally arrived at the Hotel Kasbah Xaluca, just north of Erfoud.

Me and Richard looking the part as we arrive at the Xaluca. Thanks for the photo, Sandra:

 

[Geoff Crowther]

The Xaluca has to be seen to be believed. Built in a traditional Moroccan style, the facilities are arranged around a welcoming, azure blue, outdoor pool. Fresh dates and mint tea were readily available in reception, staff were ready on hand to shift luggage and the rooms were comfortable and boasted Moroccan décor and comforts. The next 18 hours or so brought a relaxing mix of beers, superb buffet dining, dips in the pool and well-earned rest. A highlight of the evening was the hotel camel’s visit to the restaurant to perform its party trick of lifting and drinking a litre bottle of water unassisted. I kid you not. That evening, Richard and I talked about the degradation we’d seen in the towns we passed through and pondered on the lives of the ordinary people whose country were visiting. Again I mused on the contrast between their lives and mine and we talked of the necessity to make sure we showed respect to all we met, perhaps as an antidote to our feelings.

My initial encounter with the Xaluca's young camel. She's such a peach!:

Here she is again, visting the restaurant. Just imagine that in the UK!:

And here's her Mum (or Dad) performing their party trick with the water bottle. And yes ... it's in a restaurant!:

A quiet spot by the pool:

The pool itself:

And the bikes, outside the front entrance:

Loosening the handlebar control mounts for off-roading:

And finally, pizzas for lunch, before leaving on our desert adventure:

 

[paintman]

Very enjoyable read, more please.

 

[PDiddy]

Hi Geoff, great ride report. I was being berated for my choice of biscuits for our coffee breaks -

 

[Geoff Crowther]

Typical lack of gratitude! The biscuits were delicious, Paul.

 

[Geoff Crowther]

After lots of the above, mid afternoon the next day arrived and we left the delights of the Xaluca to head off into the desert to the Auberge du Sud, near Merzouga. This journey took us across a footbridge over the river, having been stopped in our tracks by a dangerous ford, swollen by heavy rains earlier that week. It also involved lots of riding over desert brash, a mixture of dry earth, small rocks and, worst of all, sand. Anyone who’s read anything on the subject, or seen films about adventure motorcycling, will know of the reputation of sand as a riding surface. Too many of these thoughts surfaced in my head as, more than once I saw sand ahead, hit it and … shut the throttle … big mistake … yet again. Each time, the bike showed its disgust by falling sideways and tipping me off in a rather inelegant fashion. Definitely a case of operator fault here and, once again (or, I should say, twice) Dave was there to, both literally and metaphorically, pick me up, dust me off, and set me on my way again, having first extricated my long-suffering bike from its predicament. Thanks again, Dave!

This little adventure did faze me somewhat. I became too tense and nervous and, by the time we arrived at the Auberge, I was a mess, mentally and physically; a low point in the trip. But, mint tea and a rest revived me, along with the promise from Dave that, next day, there was the option of an easier ride out. At that point it was just the mental Band-Aid I needed.

It was from the Auberge that we set off on our camel ride into the desert for an overnight stop at a camp in the Erg Chebbi. Erg being Arabic for an area of dunes, this is the first such area to be encountered as you move towards the Sahara in the south east of Morocco. I feared this was going to be an excessively touristy escapade but found I enjoyed the camel ride, an hour over the dunes, and arriving at the camp on a small plateau surrounded by dunes, the atmosphere was magical, especially as the sun went down. We were treated to a feast, including mutton roasted over an open fire and entertained by enthusiastic musicians whose rhythmic refrains seemed to mesh perfectly with the cool, quiet of the desert night.

Off on the camels:

Why do I look like a beached whale in this shot?

The sun was low in the sky:

A musical greeting at the camp:

Followed by more music and dance into the evening:

And roast mutton:

At 6 the next morning, in the cool air, I climbed the highest dune next to the camp to see a spectacular sunrise. The climb took an hour; the descent, running like a fool, only 15 minutes.

Climbing up was hard work:

But the top is in sight:

Sandra set off about 20 minutes behind me:

After an excellent breakfast of juice, pancakes, fruit and coffee we travelled back to the Auberge via camel and 4x4. Then, refreshed by more mint tea an biscuits, we again mounted our mechanical steeds for the return journey across the desert. While the rest of the group left for more challenging pistes Dave set off to escort me to the tarmac route out. I was pleased to ride over the sand near the Auberge which I’d not managed yesterday, and followed Dave into the wilderness. The tarmac he’d promised was, in fact, about 8miles away across more desert brash. But, I was more relaxed, the going was a touch easier, (i.e. less sandy), and I felt pleased to get to the road without help. So much so that I begged Dave to take some photos of me as, with renewed confidence, I backtracked into the brash and out again.

Breakfast in the desert; delicious!:

And, back at the Auberge, more mint tea and biscuits:

The lovely lab at the Auberge made me homesick for my own chocolate lab, Tilly. I got into trouble with the owner for feeding her biscuits!:

I rode my bloody bike from home, all the way to the desert!(With a little help from my friends):

Just to prove the point, here I am, crossing the brash. Cheers for that photo Dave:

And so, after an enjoyably rapid run along the quiet desert roads, it was back to the Xaluca for more rest and relaxation before resuming our road trip the next day.

What a filthy bike! I used to clean my bike every time I went out. I think I'm cured now. I was so proud of the travel-grimed machine:

 

[Geoff Crowther]

Heading west next morning we set off to visit the Todra Gorge, a spectacular formation with tall, vertical walls of red rock, seeming to close in on the river valley. This was followed by a crossing of the lower mountains of the High Atlas following a tarmac road which became graded piste for the final 10 miles. This brought us to a lunch stop in the small town of Alnif. From here the group split again and Richard and I settled into our own steady pace through Agdz, over the Tizi-n-Tinififft pass (Tizi means pass) culminating in a nerve-wracking night ride into Ouarzazate.

Goat herding on the way to the Todra Gorge:

These kids were some of only a few we met who spoke no French. But we still managed a friendly exchange:

The amazing Todra Gorge, and a stop for coffee:

I wish I wasn't compelled to photograph such sad looking dogs. This one was in the gorge:

And the gorge again:

View near Tinerhir:

Richard, enjoying the graded piste near Alnif:

 

[Pumpy]

Great narrative and photos, Geoff.

Thanks for taking the time to share your thoughts and experiences with us. Looking forward to the next instalment.

 

[Hermannator]

Nice one Geoff. Have a whisky or two to keep the text flowing.

 

[Geoff Crowther]

I knew that Dave had another piste planned during the next day’s journey to Marrakech but I had already decided for myself that I’d met enough challenges in off-roading for one trip and resolved to get my luggage back on the bike and stick to tarmac from here on. As it happened, Dave had come to a similar conclusion, feeling that the next day’s piste might be too challenging for me anyway.

So next day, I joined the group for a visit to Ait-Benhaddou, a stunning red mud village with World Heritage Site status and then I set off alone for the challenge of the famous Tizi-n-Tichka pass. As it happened, an initial recce left Dave with the feeling that the planned piste was a little too much for the group so, a further split left Richard, Sandra & Ken, following me up the Tizi-n-Tichka (and soon, passing me) while Dave and Paul, with much more experience between them, tackled the piste on their own. Richard later joined up with me again and we, in fact, arrived at our hotel in Marrakech first, for a much-needed beer.

So here's my first view of Ait-Benhaddou. The place has been used in lots of feature films. Sorry, can't remember which, but it's spectacular anyway:

Just look at the size of that damn nest on the tower!:

It almost looks like it's been carved out of the hillside:

This photo shows the women of the nearby village doing their laundry in the river and drying clothes on rocks. It was taken at a distance out of respect. I could have taken lots more pics showing the hardships of people's lives but I felt it just too much of an intrusion:

A village on the way up the Tizi-n-Tichka. Despite my many comments on the simple life of folks in these areas, look closely and you'll see satellite dishes:

Look at the faces. These kids were so wonderful. The boys were telling me about their blue school uniforms. Don't know why the girls didn't wear them. Wherever I passed by, children would wave enthusiastically at me and smile:

Here's Ken, catching me up at a photo stop, after they'd been thwarted by the piste from Ait-Benhaddou:

Followed closely by Sandra:

And Richard:

Another beautiful village on the way up the pass:

And a shot of the Ford Escort van of rural Morocco; the unbiquitous donkey. Seen everywhere as personal transport and carrier of loads of all descriptions:

An attempt to depict the grandeur and beauty of the High Atlas mountains:

And, after a long run, we arrived at the hotel in Marrakech, along with a tour group of over 30 German bikes. Obviously, mostly beemers, but none as mucky as ours:

 

[Geoff Crowther]

It’s fair to say that, by this point in the trip, we all, to a greater or lesser extent, felt as if we were making our way home, heading, as we were, due north. So, it was an early start next day for a planned visit to the Cacades d’Ouzoud, complete with baboons and on with the long run and a return visit to our favourite hotel of the trip .. the Grand at Ifrane! And boy, was it a long run. I’d underestimated the distance by some 50 miles, a long way as the afternoon wears on and somehow, Richard and I became separated on the road. Which brings me to where I started, at a roadside rest stop as I contemplated the sun going down soon.

Stopping at the side of the road to put waterproof linings into my kit (note the gloomy weather clouds), we met this lad, passing by with a second donkey following untethered, clutching his silver teapot. He spoke no French but was happy to have his photo taken, for which I gave him a token of thanks before he went on his way:

The Cascades d'Ouzoud:

Cats at the cascades. Wherever we saw cats they always seemed healthier and better fed than the dogs:

Ken, attempting conversation with a baboon at the cascades:

After around an hour of riding in darkness, I picked up a call from Richard who, evidently, was a little way ahead. A touch of confusion meant we didn’t meet up but, a short while later, a call from Dave revealed that he was waiting for me, just 10 miles up the road. As we met up, I was pleased to hear that he’d seen Richard pass a few minutes earlier so, in convoy, I followed Dave at good pace in the darkness. Perceived wisdom is not to ride in the dark in Morocco. Likely perils include, cars and trucks without lights, wildlife in the road, pedestrians crossing with scant regard for safety. Given all this, our ride into Ifrane was trouble-free and, thankfully, without incident. We caught up with Richard just 10 miles from Ifrane and the three of us pulled up at the hotel just before 9pm, weary, hungry and thirsty … but safe.

 

[Geoff Crowther]

Really, the final days of the tour became a bit of a blur. I’d got to a point where, despite enjoying the whole experience, I was looking forward to getting home to my wife and our two, much-loved dogs. So, I was on auto pilot. Richard and I rode the last day in Morocco together and had pretty much conquered the, much easier, border crossing when the others arrived. A second visit to our hotel in Ceuta was a pleasant rest and I enjoyed a wander round the city centre and a few beers with Richard after dinner.

Here's a last picture of my fantastic bike in North Africa, in the car park of the hotel in Ceuta. I became endlessly fascinated by it's ever-increasing state of grubbiness. Sad though it sounds, I really did feel priviledged to be riding the thing in this state:

Almost home, but a litle more to come.

 

[Geoff Crowther]

After crossing the Med, I was again separated from the group on the motorway from Algeciras, but that just allowed me to take an easier route up the motorway to Cordoba on my own. For the last two legs I was joined again by Richard as we blasted up the motorway system to arrive in Santander, in heavy rain, for the ferry to Portsmouth.

A few last photos to reassure myself and the reader that the final days were not without enjoyment.

The Roman bridge in Cordoba, right across the road from the very comfortable hotel:

Me, taking a photo of Richard, taking a photo in the superb medieval old town of Cordoba. Just before pizza and beers:

As I told Dave early on in the trip, I only came to get this:

And this. A much prized sticker:

Richard faffing (a technical term, much favoured by experienced mechanics) with his Autocom at a stop on the Autovia towards Segovia. His language was outrageous, I might tell you:

View from our hotel room in Segovia, another beautiful city which demands a return visit:

Haven't been able to verify it but this, in the centre of Segovia, must surely be an aqueduct:

Enjoying beers at a streetside cafe, we were treated to ringside seats for this procession involving folks from various countries, many dressed as birds:

And pulling lots of these behind them:

I remember no rain after a 20 minute shower trvelling towards Carmona on the trip south. Until, that is, the half hour deluge that joined us on our final run to Santander and the ferry:

The 24 hour ferry journey gave plenty of time for rest and reflection, before a final lone run in the dark to my home in the Peak District. I arrived tired, happy and elated with over 3500 miles of travelling behind me.

After the lingering kiss, (pause for sounds of crashing waves), Chrissie, my long-suffering, wonderful wife took these shots of me and the battle-scarred Adventure as I pulled into the garage, just after 10:30 that night:

And finally, of course, the inevitable group photo of, from the left, me, Richard, Sandra, Paul, Dave and Ken:

It seems appropriate to add some final thoughts.

Morocco’s an amazing destination, especially on a bike and the more so if you have the capability to get onto unsurfaced pistes. The weather in October can be hot but not excessively so. It’s a hot, sticky experience when you get off the bike and start the process of taking self and luggage into a hotel or whatever, but a shower soon revives body and soul. It is, though, a dry heat with low humidity, so sitting in the shade with a cool drink is pleasant and comforting.

The people are just beautiful. Even those who have little are happy to chat and share; a humbling experience.

Would I do it again? Yes, but I’d be very unlikely to join an organised tour. No reflection on the organisation, or my fellow tour members, but I’m not a person who likes being organised. Also, very importantly for me, despite my experience on two wheels, I’m not a fast rider and find that many people ride too quickly for me. Like Ted Simon, I’d, “rather go far than go fast.” Again, no criticism is intended of anyone on this tour. My needs were adequately accommodated by my fellow travellers, but it would’ve been easier on my own. I also would have preferred not to be working to the deadlines of booked hotels. For preference, I’d take camping kit for flexibility. I like hotels but sometimes a tent’s better than a poor hotel. But all that’s really just an excuse to go again isn’t it?

Practical tips, now I’m a Moroccan veteran (only kidding, Dave):

• My Revit Cayenne Pro riding suit, which allowed removal of the waterproof lining, and loads of vents, was comfortable, when riding in temperatures up to 35 degrees C. Also, unlike the BMW suits, it has a separate thermal lining too. So if you leave this out it's comfortably cool AND waterproof. I didn't take the thermal linings on the trip but relied on a pair of long thermal undies and jumpers when it got cool (in northern Spain and England).

• Also cool (in temperature terms), was my Arai Tour X, which is silver, which might make a difference, being a light reflecting colour.

• My First Need water filter avoided any need to buy bottled water for my Platypus hydration system. This, despite the disbelief of some tour members, (particularly when I was filtering water from the Xaluca’s swimming pool). I’ve used this in mountain environments all over the world for over 10 years now. In my humble opinion, it’s the most effective water filter on the market. (That’s a bold statement, Geoff. Yes it is, but I stand by it!)

• My Garmin Zumo 550 was invaluable, despite the free Moroccan maps (see UKGSER, and follow Tim Cullis’s excellent tips) not giving full navigation facilities. I still managed, single handed, to navigate to hotels in the centres of Ouarzazate and Marrakech and bypass Fes by the ring road without once referring to a map. Never once got lost, even when on my own; all thanks to the Zumo.

• If riding a 1200GS, check the screen adjuster thumbscrews frequently during and after off-road stuff. Mine rattled loose more than once, causing the screen to drop before I noticed.


Most of the photos shown are my own, but thanks to folks who took some pics for me with my camera. Thanks also to Ken; I nicked a couple of the ones shown here from photos he sent me. Cheers Ken; ‘hope you don’t mind.

Tour members; my photos and Ken's are curently doing the rounds on CDs. Pass 'em on when you've had 'em please.

My future trip plans currently involve Norway and the Arctic Circle by 4x4 next summer with Chrissie and, I hope, Morocco again next autumn by bike. Not sure how or who with, but plenty of time for details later. I'm sure there'll be plenty of mini-adventures before then, but those are the biggies.

Finally, my sincere thanks are due to Dave Hall and the other tour members for putting up with my idiosyncrasies and for giving me support when I needed it, especially off-road and especially Dave and Paul for sharing their considerable skills and experience so willingly; cheers guys! As a first timer, I would not have done what I did on my own, so thanks again to all.

Oh, by the way, Dave was right. The fabulous, magma red BMW R1200GS Adventure did get me home, despite the hiccup with the clutch. I just love that bike! It went in for its 12000 mile service yesterday and the technicians bled the clutch again. It seems fine now and I'm in no hurry to take it on a motorway run just to see if the problem recurs. By the way, once again my chest swelled with pride as the service manager pointed out that, only a handful of Adventures they get in are ever fitted with TKC80s and used for the purpose they were built for. Well, ticked that box, and I feel this might only be the start of the the beautiful relationship I have with my bike. After all, life's for living ain't it?

As they say in Maroc, "C'est tous."

Thanks for looking.

Cheers,
Geoff

 

[(RIP) Bin Ridin]

Bravo! Very enjoyable reading, thank you and your pals!

 

[Yonkyo]

I thoroughly enjoyed reading that. Great pics too.

Morocco is on my list of destinations (unorganized also).